


Indulgence

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Series: On Magic in Auradon [7]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gil helps Harry unwind, M/M, and muses on his loves, and the way this see saw of a relationship built itself on worry and blood and laughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: Harry doesn’t respond. He never does, when he’s like this, can only respond to Uma and her teasing, Uma and her temper edging him on. But Uma isn’t here, and Harry has to lead them all, coiled and running ragged as he is, his mood a fickle thing. Gil takes a breath, and steps closer, lifts his other hand to cup Harry’s jaw. “We need to take your mind off of it.”





	Indulgence

Harry is scowling.

His brows are knitted together, his hook a shivering, fidgety thing in his hands, his eyeliner in streaks on his cheeks. His voice is bundled up and rough, as if it could punch itself out of his throat, his coat long since discarded in a corner somewhere. And still, he sways back and forth, as if they were still on deck, still swinging their sabres at Mal and her smug glowing eyes, the magic bleached out of her hair. As if the king was still tied up and at his fingertips, as if Uma was still there, laughing and taunting and bound, and so angry.

There is something Gil can see building up between Harry’s shoulder blades and in the corners of his mouth, like a string being tuned and tuned until it rips. There’s an itch in his legs and a longing in his fingers he can’t quite place, and Harry scowls and scowls at the crew, who is loud and unruly and flinching at his every word.

He takes a breath, and a step at the same time, the floor feels worn and dying under his feet, with Harry standing on the table, his voice a storm, his eyes like coals. Uma had kissed his cheek and Harry’s forehead, had promised she’d come back for them. And then she’d ran, a blur of cyan braids and dark skin, and Gil could feel the kiss, still, could feel her every touch, her every smile.

 

* * *

 

 

(Here’s how Gil first looked at his father and saw nothing but scowls and fists and antlers:

“You will not go back there”, Gaston had said, sitting in front of the dying fireplace with a fur coat in his lap. White, with black spots, it had looked so unlike anything they owned. “I won’t have any of my sons being bossed around by a female.” His lips had curled around this sentence as if he’d eaten foul eggs, the same lines etched across his face. “Understood?”

Gil had shaken his head, and crossed his arms, had listened to the blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating in his throat. He’d looked at his father and how his cheeks glowed, how heavy his eyelids were, he’d looked at this man and the beer in his hand, and he’d squared his jaw and said _no_.

He hadn’t told him how Uma’s hair felt as he braided it, hadn’t told him how Uma’s laugh felt as if the world stopped breathing, hadn’t told him that he’d gone on his knees, for her, and would do it again if only she’d ask. Instead, he’d straightened his back and braced for the storm.)

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Harry had spiralled so far into himself that he’d forgotten how to breathe, Uma had lost a duel. The first one she’d ever lost, her grin still etched into her lips, Mal had slashed at her chest and stared when the cut started bleeding, seeping through the torn fabric. The crowd, who had been loud and unruly and screaming for more, had fallen silent, and Jay had dragged Mal away, her eyes human and small.

Uma hadn’t even fainted, but as Gil had tended to her wound and sung to her, some old French lullaby his mother used to sing to him when his father was fast asleep, Harry had worried his hook, and himself until both were ragged. Gil can’t remember now just what he’d said, can only remember the way he’d paced, the way he’d snapped his teeth and didn’t spare Uma even a look as he’d talked and talked himself into a frenzy until he couldn’t breathe. Uma’s blood on Gil’s hands felt almost hot, itching and sizzling against his skin.

Uma had responded with a snap of her own, a growl deep in her chest that ripped Gil’s stitches clean through, her magic boiling so close to the surface, Gil had actually felt it burning his fingers. Her face had been a scowl of anger and pain and something else flickering behind it all, and Gil had felt so small besides them, their voices spitting and splintering into each other.

And when Uma had almost gotten up, had reached for the side of the bed to push herself into a sitting position, he’d held her down, his heart tight under his ribs. “You’re hurt”, he’d said, and: “I need to do your stitches again, please.” Harry had made a sound, something ugly and primal ripping from his throat like he’d been punched, and then, suddenly, he’d sat down next to Gil, his hands shivering, his eyes glassy, his mouth pursed.

“Let me help you”, he’d said, his accent thicker than usual, and Gil had let him.

Somehow, that’s what it took to calm Harry down; the methodical sewing and Uma’s hand in his own, his shoulder pressed against Gil’s as Gil sang again, softly and quietly so the crew wouldn’t hear. When he was done, Uma had smiled at him, lazily and slowly, her magic bubbling in her eyes as she looked at him and sang with him, her voice ragged and hoarse.

Gil had sketched it out, that smile, and the way it stilled the world around him, and he suddenly didn’t mind the blood smeared on his hands anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Now, Gil stands before Harry, who is coiled tightly and glaring at him, his teeth sharp and dangerous. But his hand around Gil’s wrist is soft, and careful as it always is, pulling him in. Gil slowly lifts his hands, and wipes at the smears of eyeliner on Harry’s skin. “She’ll come back”, he says, his voice unwavering despite the way his skin crawls at the thought that maybe, if she fails, she can’t. “She always does, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He never does, when he’s like this, can only respond to Uma and her teasing, Uma and her temper edging him on. But Uma isn’t here, and Harry has to lead them all, coiled and running ragged as he is, his mood a fickle thing. Gil takes a breath, and steps closer, lifts his other hand to cup Harry’s jaw. “We need to take your mind off of it.”

Harry’s breathing slows down, and he lifts his head, his chest moving ever so slowly, and Gil resists the urge to kiss him, kiss the tension off his lips and drop to his knees right in front of the crew. “Please”, he says softly. “Indulge me, will you?”

Harry nods, and lets Gil drag him off the table, and into Uma’s cabin, clutching his hook and Gil’s wrist.

 

* * *

 

The first time they had kissed him, Gil had been covered in flour, and he’d felt like he might just crawl under one of the tables and never come out from under it. The crew had been asleep, already, and he’d tried to bake cookies for them, the way he did at home whenever he could get his hands on the ingredients. Uma had laughed, something open and soft, and it had made her eyes seem like they were glowing, her hands curled in Harry’s hair, who had closed his eyes and had made a sound that was almost a purr, something low and satisfied in his throat. “Go ahead”, Gil had said and stared at his arms and the flour all over them, “laugh at my pain, captain.”

Uma had clicked her tongue and reached for him, wiping the flour off his lips, her skin warm against his, and she had smiled, that smile that she only ever smiled at him, and at Harry. “You look like you fell into a mill”, she’d said, in between her laughter. Harry, his head in her lap, had chuckled softly, and the sound settled into Gil’s stomach, something warm and fluttering. Uma had leaned forwards, cocking her head, and she had pulled him in.

She had kissed him, and Gil’s world had shrunken down to her lips on his, the sound of Harry, content between them, her hands cupping his cheeks. Her lips had been chapped, and rough against his own, warmer than he was. It had been a soft, tender thing, that kiss, Gil’s flour covered hands on Uma’s waist, following her every move, her every sound. When she had pulled back, her pupils blown wide, Gil had whined at the loss of it.

She’d laughed, again, and had tapped his nose. “They’ll turn out ok, you’re a good baker.” Harry had opened his eyes and nodded, lifting himself off Uma’s lap and in between them, Uma’s hands still on Gil, Gil’s arms still wrapped around her. He’d cocked his head, the way Gil had seen him do when Uma danced, or laughed, and then he’d leaned forwards too.

Harry’s kiss had been a curious thing, his lips soft, his hands harder than Uma’s, pulling Gil in where Uma had pushed, humming and nipping at his bottom lip. Gil’s eyes had fluttered close as he’d let Harry draw him in, had felt almost like liquid in their hands.

When Harry had pulled back and Gil had chased the feeling of his lips on his own, Uma had laughed, and kissed his cheek. “So”, she’d said. “Cookies?”

 

* * *

 

 

Indulging Gil looks something like this:

His mind is a blur, his body warm against Harry’s, Harry’s hand firm around his wrists, his mouth on his neck, painting bruises all over him. He melts at his every touch, sighs at his every move, his back arched, his toes curling the way they do only when Harry or Uma touch him with soft hands and firm words, when Uma demands he calls her name, over and over again until he’s sore and flushed and hoarse and his head is swimming, when Harry holds his hands above his head and drags his lips all over him, makes Gil hold still through it all until he’s trembling and begging.

It’s also this; Harry’s focus is on him, and his skin, away from whatever makes him fret and spiral and snap, it’s praise and heat all over him, the way the sheets feel against his skin, the way Harry carries him to the bathtub once the tension has left his shoulders and Gil has forgotten how to speak. Harry lifts him into the bathtub, a bent and broken old thing that leaks and rots the floor underneath it, kisses the top of his head and thanks him, his hands soft as he sings to him and untangles his hair.

“She’ll come back”, Gil says, a slur in his throat. “She always comes back.”

Harry nods and kisses him, his hands still shivering, his back uncoiled. “I know”, he says. “She will.”


End file.
